Author's Notes: Nothing much. An exercise in fragments and commas, as you will readily find out. Nearly killed the spellchecker, haha. I may yet turn this into more than a oneshot. Not sure yet. Leaning on the idea heavily though. Tell me what you think. Leave it as is, or develop it further?
Unknown, what lay beneath the deep, darkness of the water. Nobody knew for sure what dwelt down in the watery abyss. Things not even magic could retrieve, secrets not even the greatest sorcery could fathom. And people willingly dove, swam, indeed, bathed in those very waters. Could any lone wizard or witch say they knew for a fact what poured into their daily bath? Could any of them speak of what they couldn't see, couldn't feel, hear, nor smell?
Yes, it infected everything, the murk of the water. He did not understand the way everyone so carelessly used it. Never knowing what crept into their skin, their bodies, their very lives. It consumed them, until they could not live but to immerse themselves in it. Daily, weekly, monthly, for a lifetime, they were surrounded in it, by it, for it.
The merpeople, he pitied them the most. They lived always in the darkness of the deep water, in the untold evilness that was the liquid. Perhaps they knew, perhaps they didn't, yet they could do nothing. Nothing but swim and thrash and cry in the darkness. The darkness that wove its way through the pips, the pipes of the castle, the pipes of his home, the pipes of every dwelling in England, in the world! It spread everywhere, sparing none from its grip and lull.
The potions he brewed were much more pure. Seldom did he try to use the foul substance that would ruin his concoctions. There were substitutes, yes, many substitutes. They would not, could not, spread the vileness of the water. Blood, bile, juice, nectar, other liquids could be used. They would keep his precious potions pure. Maybe not good, for he could brew and bottle drinks and poisons that would make the skin turn in on itself, make the blood dry and turn to stone, make the stomach eat the body from the inside out. No, not always good.
Yet there did lie in his potions classroom elixirs and liquors to grant every dream of whoever would use them. There did lie some good in his hidden wares. In the locked drawers and shelves of his office, of his classroom, he held the draughts and the washes with power to turn your worst enemy into your lifemate, cure any ailment, stave off the cold, gripping hands of death himself. No, not always bad, either.
And all because he did not use the filthy wetness that was water! Water that could wear down the hardest obsidian, water that could dissolve the most potent powders and grains.
They stare at him in wonder, in shock, in disgust and mistrust. They stare at his unwashed appearance, his grimy hands, his greasy hair, his smeared and dirty robes. They stare and they whisper and they criticize because they do not know the truth. They have no inkling of the horror they lived their lives with.
He sneered and smirked at them. He let them carry on, getting infected and transferring the vileness from one to the other. They kept it up until the population was nothing but the proverbial bottle of the water, used to harbor the contamination it stretched across the land.
None had he met who shared the same thoughts. None who could say they stayed as far away from the dread of the water as he did. None who were as dirty and grungy as he. Non who managed to see the truth. Yet. When he found the one who would ward off the water forever, and keep him safe from it.